Where sour-mash mixtures simmer.
The hillside Stills their fragrance breathe, and wood birds are a sounding;
My jug is in the hollow:
So fill it up, but watch your step and Secret Service hounding!
The scent is sweet to follow.
The Cotton Bolls are bursting forth with weevils in the sepals;
Come, Dinah, get to picking!
And rush the staple to the mart to clothe the naked peoples!
Or you will get a licking!
The baleful Gins are all prepared to do the fibre-squeezing: